Ivory Cross
by Akuma no Tsubasa
Summary: "Little things like the threat of loss were amazingly effective reminders of faith."  Margulis reflects on his faith and the symbols thereof.  Mentions MargulisxPellegri, JinXPellegri, and Margulis/Jin.  Rated for religious imagery and blood.


Hello.

So, this is just a little fic that came out of my love for Xenosaga in general, and the dynamic between Jin, Margulis, and Pellegri in particular. Obviously, since this is a Xenosaga fic, there are some religious themes, so anyone offended by that, please turn back now. Mention is made of both Margulis x Pellegri and Jin x Pellegri as well as some Margulis/Jin. Again, you've been warned.

So, please enjoy and let me know what you think.

* * *

Ivory Cross

Two small white candles lit the darkness; one already burned quite low, the other not yet quite halfway. Once, Margulis had been perpetually frustrated by the fact that no two outwardly identical candles could manage to burn at the same rate. Now he found the asymmetry pleasing, almost soothing. He would let each burn in its own time until it guttered, then replaced it, and while that meant he had to replace candles twice as often, he didn't mind it. It forced him to return to his small altar more frequently for the simple necessity of keeping the place from burning down.

Little things like the threat of loss were amazingly effective reminders of faith.

The two mismatched candles sat on simple brass holders shaped like shallow bowls on little stands. These stood on a short rectangular altar of highly polished wood, very dark with a pleasant red-gold grain pattern in the warm light. He had nothing left of Michtam, but he at least had this last little bit of Miltia—**Old** Miltia—his second home. Draped over the fine wood between the two candles was a white altar-cloth, its hanging end embroidered with the Ormus symbol, the tree and the bladed cross. Margulis knew that many in Ormus's more militant arm used a red cloth to symbolize the blood they had shed—or were willing to shed—in the name of the faith. Margulis preferred the simple white as a sign that all the blood could be washed away by God's power, that their cause was pure.

Settled on the cloth were three items. The first was a shallow brass bowl of design similar to the candleholders full of holy water. The second was a short ceremonial dagger. The last, and the centerpiece of the altar was the brass cross. Oh, certainly he could afford a more ornate cross, made of silver or gold if he wanted it. And truthfully, he rather needed a replacement for his warped and battered cross. During a brief skirmish with the Federation—not even an event of any consequence—some of the damage to his cruiser had leaked into the personnel quarters. Many people had lost everything they had aboard, whole cabins vaporized or vented into space. Upon entering his own quarters, he had been astounded to find everything completely untouched—except for that most fundamental, simplest of symbols of his faith. It felt a little like violation.

He flatly refused to read any symbolism into it.

But he had so far not replaced its warped and twisted form, one arm sagging slightly, most of the top blown clear off, and a deep gouge halfway down. He liked his cross. It was not the eye-catching brilliance of gold—Margulis believed that the more important the symbol, the humbler it should be, so as not to distract from the faith itself or encourage idolatry. Nor was it silver—the traitor's metal that looked so much like the flash of fine sword-steel in the uncertain light. No, his cross was simple, unassuming, and fit soothingly into his private sanctum. Let the Patriarch and the Cathedrals keep their brilliant baubles—he **lived** his faith, proved it by his actions, not the prettiness of his private place of worship. Let those other fools think as they would of him. He did not care.

And there it was again, possibly his greatest stumbling block, the sin with which he struggled constantly, and part of the reason for the simplicity of his altar in the first place.

Pride.

Sitting quietly in the darkness, just beyond reach of the warm glow of candlelight on brass, Margulis reflected on the bitter harvest that sin had reaped him. Going personally to repel the intruders was a mistake. He could admit that now, if only to himself. But he had been bored and intrigued by opponents who were able to avoid the stronghold's formidable air-defense systems. He'd rationalized that only truly singular opponents could make it so far, and thus **of course** he had to be the one to go. In his conceit, it had been almost a disappointment to find that his opponents were that little Realian and her pet cyborg, though the U.R.T.V. made things a little more interesting. Still, feeling cheated, he had made to destroy them with one blast of the fire from his blade.

Then Jin Uzuki unexpectedly retook the stage. Fourteen years it had been since Margulis had last seen the man, and he'd barely changed at all. Certainly it looked like he'd been pulled abruptly from a peaceful life—after all, given warning, who willingly went into battle without so much as hakama?—and his swordskill was just a tiny fraction rusty. But his almost ageless features were as graceful as ever, his eyes as piercing, and the sharp edge of his tongue still bit deep. Deep enough to sting Margulis's pride and goad him into single combat, when he should have been destroying all of them.

Oh, but the fight itself was a spot of brilliance in the whole mess, for the rust had been quickly blown from Uzuki's sword, leaving behind only sharp-edged skill. The joy of the exertion, the thrum of muscles straining against each other, the singing of steel through the waiting stillness of the air… For Margulis, it was the closest he had come to bliss in a long time (Pellegri's efforts aside, as she was as exceptional in that as in everything else).

The lack of practice was obvious to Margulis in how close to ruin Uzuki danced the whole time. Flashy behind-the-back blocks and strikes, last second dodges and just-barely-made-it parries—all bespoke the fact that Uzuki clearly wasn't commanding the fight, was just a fraction too slow or too weak to do things an easier way. Not that he'd done so much better that time on Miltia, but then he'd had the excuse of the wound in his side. And there could be no doubt that the man had always fought well from a position of weakness. Margulis was unable to create and capitalize upon an opening, that very fact bespeaking Uzuki's skill with the sword. In a longer fight, things would have been different, of course, as Uzuki wore down. Margulis's victory was inevitable.

Ah, pride again. And arrogance.

There had been some truly hair-raising, wonderful moments in their short time, things that sent thrills of excitement and pleasure singing through his body even now. For example, when he'd taken Uzuki's sword and brought it to bear on its master. Uzuki had caught the blade between his palms, and managed to block Margulis's strike and reclaim his blade in one deft move, but Margulis knew Uzuki's hands would be stinging with the cuts for a while to come. Another sweet moment had come when Margulis managed to leap from a railing and come down right on Uzuki with all his weight and knock him flat on his back. And when the slighter man had struggled, he had been completely unable to shift by even an inch the blade threatening to lay open his pale throat.

Of course, up that close, Margulis had finally gotten a good look in his opponent's eyes, and the resultant moment of hesitation had bought him a sandal to the gut and a vicious statement that drained the joy of the fight from him and left him cold.

"I'll never allow a monster like you to inherit my grandfather's technique!"

The words went round and round in Margulis's head, whittling themselves steadily down to the most hurtful.

_"…never allow a monster like you…monster like you…monster…"_

Uzuki had named him all manner of hurtful things when they had parted ways before the Miltian Conflict, but Margulis had said some terrible things himself. He'd known both were speaking from the pain of betrayal, and was eventually able to let most of the pain go. With it had fled the bulk of the anger the words themselves had spawned, though the anger at the betrayal still remained. After all, he had **trusted **Uzuki, trusted his word and his judgment over all others, and the man had run off to the Federation—those barbarous, faithless, murderous…monsters! Just the thought was enough to make Margulis's hands shudder into tendon-popping fists, even fourteen years later and seated in the peace of his personal sanctuary.

But to be called a monster… Not merely 'oath breaker' (for an oath he hadn't meant in the first place), or 'traitor' (it was the Federation, not Uzuki, he'd betrayed, and they'd had it coming), or 'bastard' (patently untrue and Uzuki knew it). Monster. As though he was on the same level as the Federation thieves, as murderers and rapists, as torturers and brain hackers.

That hurt. Because, despite the pain of that violent break between them all those years ago on Miltia, despite all the words hanging between them—spoken then and more recently—Margulis was fond of Uzuki. He always had been, and he had never been able to help himself. How many twenty-one-year-old captains were in the Federation? The Federation Special Forces? Or U-TIC, for that matter? Not many.

Uzuki had been exceptionally gifted from the beginning. He was a genius, and not just in one field, as so many were, but just had the knack for picking up anything that he happened across. He was a talented martial artist, good at all things military, an Immigrant, a member of a sect of the Church from birth, and—let's face it—absolutely beautiful. Honestly, on Miltia that was every possible benefit in his favor, so he really hadn't needed any help, but Margulis had liked him and chose to carefully shepherd his career to keep him near. God knew he'd done everything in his power to ensure Uzuki landed on his side for the conflict, everything short of offering him Lost Jerusalem itself! They'd engaged in long philosophical and religious discussions, he'd been sure to always have something for Uzuki to do to help him in his constant battle against boredom. He'd assigned as his chief subordinate a promising young officer who had already proven herself true to the Faith. And Uzuki and Pellegri had gotten along better than Margulis had hoped, becoming friends and lovers, and surely so much external influence should have shown Uzuki that his rightful place was with U-TIC and Ormus and Margulis.

But it hadn't, and the rupture between them had been as unexpected as it had been painful. Losing Uzuki's talents and skill had been a blow to the movement. Losing his loyalty—devotion, even—had been a blow to Margulis and Pellegri. Her loyalty had never been in doubt, yet looking back, Margulis could see how close she had come to walking away all those years ago. But having made her decision then, there was no chance she would leave now, and Margulis was grateful. He could still feel the ragged edges of the wound Uzuki had carved out of his heart when he left—losing both of them would have destroyed him.

He wondered if the loss hadn't already destroyed Uzuki. The man was as dangerous a warrior as any, but he'd never managed to harden his heart completely against his opponent's pain, never just ignored their feelings, from which arose their agendas. His eyes had often been cold, but they were never hard. Yet, in that moment when he had managed to stare into Uzuki's face from only arms length away, he had seen hardness there. When God created Uzuki, he'd painted his eyes in the greenest of all creation's greens, the color of forests and fields and those comparatively few blessed planets capable of sustaining human life. But now it looked as though some well-meaning artist had carved those eyes out and replaced them with cut emeralds—beautiful themselves, but cold and hard and bright with sharp-edged brilliance. Lifeless, still, and unchanging; more likely to cut than to heal.

They chilled Margulis to his very soul. What could possibly have done **that** to Uzuki? Did he really want to know the answer? Or perhaps he already knew it, and had simply shut his eyes to the knowledge so long ago he could no longer bear to look. Like sitting in a darkened room for too long, then stepping out into the sun. Even the thought made his eyes water—yes, water, for he surely wasn't **weeping** over his long-absent friend. No, not a friend. He couldn't let himself think even that, not if he was to have the strength to face the man again on the field of battle, should the need arise.

Still, the past decade-and-change had been difficult, cold and lonely despite Pellegri's determined presence at his side. She was good to him and for him, but he could never quite manage to connect with her on the level he had attained so effortlessly with Uzuki. She was always beneath him, his subordinate, eager and helpful, and if she occasionally chafed at his orders, groaning under the weight of what had to be done, it was always simple enough to bring her to heel.

Uzuki had been his equal even when he hadn't been. Several years younger than him, but his equal with a sword. And despite a lower rank, he had questioned orders unhesitatingly if he felt the need and refused to back off until his concerns were addressed—which had made him a crucial and valued part of Margulis's decision-making process. Almost no major plan Margulis had devised proceeded without Uzuki at least being aware of the broad strokes and verbally buying off on it. For God's sake, Uzuki had seen the embryonic forms of half of what was happening now! And Margulis had recent proof that the sharp edges of the other swordsman's wit had not been dulled by the last fourteen years. Soon enough—likely within a year—Uzuki would probably have enough information to use that prior knowledge to guess at the shape of things to come. And Uzuki's guesses were more solid than many men's facts, his projections bordering on precognition. He was a dangerous opponent to have, and Margulis knew he should inform Heinlein—Sergius either already was or soon would be a factor no longer.

But just for a while Margulis wanted to just recall the good times, to stare at his almost stark altar and remember a time when he'd had faith in humans as well as in God.

After a few more hours of staring at the flickering candles, including carefully changing out the low one when it guttered, he finally forced himself to bed. There were message lights lit on his comm panel, but nothing urgent if Pellegri hadn't come knocking by now. And at this hour, he couldn't expect anyone to react favorably if he called to follow up on their likely hours old messages. So he shucked his uniform and lay down on his bed. The mattress was hugely uncomfortable tonight—more like this morning, really—but he fell asleep immediately anyway.

His alarm woke him from a disturbing dream in which his brass cross was replaced by a carved-ivory statuette of Uzuki, with emeralds for eyes and rubies for lips and a fall of sharp obsidian hair. The statuette was burned and battered and thick red blood welled from the wounds scored in its cold surface. Margulis cut his hands on that sharp black hair when he lifted the figure from the altar and cradled it in his arms, trying to staunch the bleeding. The statue became the man himself, leaning up to wrap his arms around Margulis's neck and draw him into a warm kiss. But when Margulis leaned back to study Jin's face, he saw his eyes were carved out, blood trickling from the corners of the sockets past the multifaceted emeralds that filled them.

The piercing beeping he so often cursed at in the mornings was welcomed wholeheartedly for once. He showered with the water turned all the way to scalding in the hopes it would wash away the remnants of the dream, dressed in a new and immaculate uniform, then knelt before his altar for a quick morning prayer and another candle change. Drawing comfort from the morning routine, he turned on the coffee maker and sat to browse through his messages.

Third in the queue was a message from Uzuki.

"Hello, Colonel," the man said with his mouth curved into that soft almost-smile that had always driven Margulis to distraction before and had obviously not lost its power. "Careless of you not to change all your access codes in fourteen years. Not that it would have helped much. I know too well how you think, where you put things, what your system is. After all, I built much of it, and I always did know you best." The smile turned almost into a grin, the expression of an old friend sharing a private joke, gently teasing where instead he could have scathed. But the smile dropped away, and the fleeting softness in his eyes vanished into the unsettling hardness again.

"Margulis," and how infrequent it had always been for Uzuki to use his name, fond as the other man was of titles, categories, and structures. A personal appeal, then. "Please. If you ever respected me, or…cared for me as I did for you, please just listen for a moment. You are being used. I don't know by whom or toward what end, but someone has set out to manipulate you and your faith. And Pellegri as well. Maybe even all of Ormus. I have no evidence, so I cannot prove it to you, but…I know. I doubt you will believe me, but still…" Solemn green eyes turned pleading. "Please, at least be cautious." The recorded image of his friend and rival looked over his shoulder then back out of the screen. "I have to go. I hope…that we never see each other again. Goodbye."

The sudden end of the recording gave Margulis pause. No parting jab? No joke or bittersweet endearment? Not so much as a last half-mocking 'Colonel'? He reached forward and played the last few seconds of the recording again.

"I hope…" a hesitation, as though discarding whatever he had been going to say originally, or perhaps steeling his nerve. "…that we never see each other again. Goodbye." Was that a hitch in Uzuki's voice? And that…couldn't possibly have been a tear he saw escape the fringe of long black eyelashes. No. Not after so much had turned to bitter ashes between them.

Uzuki's feelings didn't really matter anyway, he told himself. He had given Margulis a warning, and while he wasn't going to take it at face value—they were **enemies** now, after all, and he was no fool—the advice was still worthwhile. 'Be cautious.' Margulis knew he'd become a bit lax over time—perhaps he should just consider this a prime opportunity to make a change for the better. He'd be more careful, change his access codes—though Uzuki was right and it wouldn't matter, at least if the green-eyed man looked over his system again, he'd know Margulis had taken his meaning.

He'd have to let Pellegri know, of course. Should he tell her Uzuki sent him a warning? Would she believe it? Her bruised heart made her rather prickly on the subject of the other man, though really it was Margulis who should have been upset that there was another man to begin with. Somehow, because it was Uzuki, it hadn't mattered so much. Still, best not to tell her that little tidbit.

He rose from the comm panel, determined to start some changes today—no, **right now**. He went to check his candles one last time before he headed out, and paused at the sight of his altar. There was a change he could make. Finally get a new cross. It had to be in harmony with the rest of his little sanctuary, though, so what to do? He didn't think he wanted another brass cross—besides, it would be so hard finding exactly the right one to blend in with all his other brassware.

Maybe bone or ivory. Yes, a nice ivory cross to sit on the snowy altar cloth, surrounded by warm brass fixtures. He could see it in his mind, his new personal sanctuary, and already he felt calmer, closer to God. Maybe this change was a good thing. Maybe he'd have to thank Uzuki when he saw him next.

He hoped by then he'd have driven the sight of emeralds in bloodied sockets far from his mind.


End file.
